


inside out

by macabre



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mostly Gen, emotional disturbance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabre/pseuds/macabre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hopes no one comes, but they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	inside out

The lights at his house are never on; lights welcome people in, and Will wants no visitors. He moves through the dark hallways just fine, the dogs having learned to keep their distance at night lest a tail be stepped on. He keeps his moderate two-story two-faced; the downstairs is clean, prepared for when a guest forces their way in, just in case. Upstairs, starting on the carpeted last step, is a casual disaster of dirty laundry and muddy footprints. 

Will’s never invited anyone upstairs. Not that he invites anyone in at all, but the thought of Jack Crawford waiting for him on his porch plagues him. Jack has never asked to come in, but Will waits. He’s good at waiting.

Spending time on the road has never suited him. He likes his schedule and he likes his bed, although he sleeps worse there than in his anonymous hotel beds. Being away from routine, his dogs, even his classroom makes him itch. It makes it easier for him to slip - see himself, not see Hobbs. He’s not Hobbs.

He doesn’t eat until the doctor brings him something. Lector always asks if he may enter the room, if he may ride with him, if he may take his leave. Will doesn’t mind that he asks, because he gets the distinct impression that he can say no, and Lector won’t mind at all. He’s there to watch Will, observe and take his notes to Crawford, but Will knows he respects his space. Lector sees him for what he is - dangerous, on his best days.

He never thought that Lector would be just as dangerous.

They’re on the road. They’re at home. Will not-sleeps in his bed and not-eats at his table. He lectures, some listen. He fires a gun with little accuracy. He thinks - well, he doesn’t need a gun. The best don’t kill with a gun.

He leaves the lights off. It’s getting colder in his house. The dogs all pile on top of each other at night and Will piles on more blankets. He’s not home enough anymore. When he dreams it’s never a gun.

Jack tells him to stop visiting Abigail Hobbs. Will stops seeing anyone. He doesn’t lecture - some miss him, most don’t. Alana calls; Jack calls. Will hates the sound of a phone ringing. He disconnects his line. 

The first time Jack comes to his house, he doesn’t knock, but sits on the porch for awhile. The dogs whine to go outside, but Will likes to think that the dark house fools him into leaving. Alana isn’t so easily detoured; she knocks, rings the doorbell, and makes every obnoxious sound possible to trick him into opening the door.

When Lector comes to the door, he makes no sound, but Will sees his shadow through the windows even when there’s no light to make shadows. He fidgets, not really wanting him to come in. 

He stands at the door long enough Will lets him in, even if Jack stayed on the porch much longer. 

“Will.” Lector’s greeting are always short, to the point. He comes in with more food for him, sets him a place to eat and silently watches, legs crossed, hand folded. 

The food should taste good. They taste like ashes.

“Why did you let me in when you’ve so pointedly ignored your other callers, Will?”

When he shrugs, it’s more like a tick in one shoulder. It’s usually followed by a tick in his jaw. He doesn’t have an answer. He barely has a feeling. No empathy for Will Graham.

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

“I sleep.” He stares at the corner of the kitchen where tile meets carpet. Lector stares at him - so much, so little. He hardly blinks.

“You will tonight.” Lector stands and Will flinches. He’s sure the doctor means to touch him, but the hands button his coat and stay there. Will doesn’t get up. He’s too tired, and a heavy meal leaves him incapacitated. 

“Good night, Will. Lock the door behind me.”

Lector leaves so quietly Will can’t be sure he’s really gone. Will’s legs feel like jello and his dogs keep trigging him, excitement of a visitor not yet faded. He twists the deadbolt, his head feels too light. 

Will doesn’t make it to the bed. He sleeps on the couch with the dogs on top of his legs. They pin him down, too heavy, but his thoughts won’t focus and he can no longer keep his eyes open.

In the morning, he drinks coffee for the first time in years. A whole pot. Black. His thoughts turn from sluggish to excited, but when he looks in the kitchen, he finds no trace of his last meal. Lector brought Tupperware, and he took it with him. He even took the utensils Will used, although they were his own.

Will sits in the chair at his table where he sat last night. He leans forward and carefully sniffs the wood. It smells old, a little damp, but faint traces of heavy meat and creme. Under that, he might smell it. Very faint, very faintly stirred into the sauce. Can’t put his finger on it exactly, but it could be close to ketamine.

The dogs whine to go out. Will opens the door and finds no one on the porch. He wants to be angry, but he doesn’t sleep that night. Or the next. He lies in bed, he lies on the couch. He sits on the porch. 

“Will, we need you.” Jack sits next to him on the cold porch stairs because he keeps only one chair for outside. “Dr. Lector told me you were sleeping better.”

“Yes. Dr. Lector is a good doctor.” Will smiles, but it looks worse than his tick. 

“I need to know you’re alright.”

“No. But I will be.”


End file.
